


The Final Countdown

by Hikari_no_Chibi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Thorki Secret Santa 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_no_Chibi/pseuds/Hikari_no_Chibi
Summary: Ethereal Wishes prompted: Overdue Books. Small Town. Slow Burn.BOY OH BOY was this a fun challenge.  I loved the prompt, but I had to find a format that would let me deliver a slow burn without the time to devote to a 30k+ word count fic. AND I'M STILL NOT REALLY SURE IT WORKED.  But hey, I have been stuck in an airport, traffic, and even a gas station bathroom in the last 48 hours.  So this is what I made, and I really hope you like it!





	The Final Countdown

 

**10.**

Belle gulped her tea and tried to swallow her nerves down with it.  The flavor was too sweet by half, but she hadn’t the heart to go back and complain.  On her third day in town, Granny’s Diner started a tradition of serving her beverage to-go “just how you like it.” And that was all well and good, except for the increasingly frequent days when Granny and Ruby both added a packet of sugar to her cup without consulting one another. Today, it tasted as though Ashley had added a third.

Still, she needed the comfort of a warm cuppa to brace her hands; otherwise she might be tempted to run her fingers along the spines of Mr. Gold’s antique books again. He hated that.  Touching of any sort made him visibly flinch, and what a shame that was – because books were made to be read. So, tea in hands: check. Butterflies locked in stomach: check. Well-reasoned request statement: check. Readiness for a blistering quarrel with the town’s acting comptroller: ...Eh. 

Belle didn’t anticipate a very pleasant encounter.  Maybe this would be the first day in the three months since she moved to Storybrooke when Mr. Gold just... stayed... home.

Not that that would solve any of her problems.

Just as she rounded the corner of Main Street, the tell-tale rattle of a shop bell and slamming door announced that Gold’s Pawn Shop was, in fact, open for business. And that he had already engaged in his first row of the day, if the Deputy’s retreating stomp was anything to go by.  Poor Emma; being the new hire in Graham’s office was hard enough, nevermind the Mayor breathing down his neck (and perhaps leaving the odd hickey). She sympathized with her fellow civil servants; Regina was a tyrant in bespoke blazers and pencil skirts.

Without waiting to see what Deputy Swan was up to, Belle reluctantly approached the door and let herself in, out of the cold.

“Shop’s closed,” snapped Gold from somewhere in the back.  “Come back tomorrow!”

“I’m actually here on Library business, Mr. Gold,” she responded. She hoped her voice sounded more formidable to his ears than it did to hers.  “If you could spare a moment, I’d--”

A sharp crack cut her off mid-sentence. 

The irregular thump of his cane betrayed his location, and a curtain dividing the front of the shop from the back was snatched aside to reveal the man himself.  Mr. Gold owned half the town; that was the first thing they told her about him when she’d arrived. Second was that he’d been “acting” Comptroller for 20 years; so long that people thought she was mad when she asked about putting town finances back on the public ballot again.  Third, which she’d figured out for herself: he wore a tailored suit and waistcoat every day, and she couldn’t honestly say if she’d seen him in the same outfit twice. It took a certain imp of mischief to cavort about the town the way he did, Belle was certain. There was an artistic soul in there somewhere, even if it was just a shade of drama eking into the costume department.

“Miss French,” he nodded, barely meeting her eyes. “Here to beg me for funding?”

“No, Mr. Gold. Unfortunately, I—“

“Then I suppose it will be about some sort of illiterate orphan scholarship.” He sounded bitter.

“Mr. Gold, I asked you to buy a Miner’s Day candle once, two months ago,” Belle huffed.  It was amazing how much braver she felt in the face of his ridicule. One of these days, her pride was going to get her into trouble.  “I hardly think that constitutes a pattern of beggarly harassment.”

At that, he smirked.

“What can I do for you, Miss French?” He almost sounded pleasant.

“Unfortunately, I am here because I finally finished digitizing Hortense’s old card catalog, and it seems you were the last person to check out several specialty books from our reference section,” she said. “The missing books are out of print and quite difficult to replace, so—“

“So you thought you would come along and back-bill me 25 cents a day for the past two decades, and that would fill out your petty cash for the next fiscal year?” His lip had curled up in disgust, showing his snarling, golden teeth.

“No,” said Belle, forcing herself to remain calm. “Our policy caps all late fees at $45 per volume, or six months missing.  But I--”

“There’s no need to speak further, Miss French.  You’re too late. It’s been years. Cut your losses and leave me alone.”

But Belle squared her shoulders and shook her head.  “I came to ask if you still had the books, particularly the Chippendale, and if you would be willing to return it if I dropped the fees and reinstated your library card.”

“Well, you’ve asked.”

“And?”

“What makes you think I still have them, dearie?” His tone was sweet, but his eyes were cold.

“It’s a small town, Mr. Gold,” Belle reasoned.  “If Marco doesn’t have my copy of  _ The Gentleman & Cabinet Maker’s Director _ , then I can be reasonably sure who does.  It was a first edition, and a town asset. I seriously doubt a man with your eye for value would lose something like that.”

“Well perhaps I stole it and sold it at auction,” he countered. “Everyone knows I’m a thieving monster who turns people out of their homes in the dead of winter.”

“You’re not my monster,” Belle shrugged. It might be more apt to say that he wasn’t her landlord, but she didn’t want to push her luck.  She had the precarious feeling that Mr. Gold’s tolerance was stretched to the breaking point. “And I certainly haven’t seen anyone turned out in the snow lately.”

Gold simply glared.

“Please,” she said.  “It’s quite valuable, and I am accountable for it.”

“So this is about the money.” He sounded bitter again.

It was all Belle could do not to shout at the man.  It was only about money if he didn’t return public property! In no way had she approached him and asked him to pay anything, not a single cent! Belle had to take a deep breath and count backwards from ten.

10: Of course she didn’t want to report something valued near ten thousand dollars missing in her next inventory report.  9: Of course she would have preferred to simply shove the old card in the fireplace and never speak of it again. 8: Of course she would have liked very much to find a job in a town that wasn’t constantly embroiled in the most melodramatic sort of political side show. 7: Of course nobody had even asked for the book in 17 years. 6: Of course Marco could just as easily make-do with the inter-library loan that would arrive tomorrow. 5: Of course none of this was her fault…

She never, ever made it all the way down to 1. But that didn’t change how much this irked her.  This simply not the way it was supposed to work – it was dishonest, and frankly it was fraud. Besides, even the most affluent antiquarian could not have possibly needed a book like that more than a handful of times in a year.  What were libraries for, then?

Instead, she clutched her little cardboard cup tighter and tried to force a smile.

“It was just an idea, Mr. Gold,” said Belle, accepting her defeat with as much grace as she could muster.  “If you don’t have the books any more, then perhaps I was mistaken.”

And when he didn’t do more than sneer, she left.

Or she would have done, had Graham not stormed through the door and collided with her mid-stride.  The cardboard cup slipped from her hand, launching through the air and doffing its cap, vomiting its over-sweet guts across the pawn shop.

“I am so sorry!” said Belle to Graham at the same time that Gold cursed.  Half a second later, once Graham had ensured that she wasn’t hurt, all pretenses were dropped and the two men were merely shouting – something to do with zoning laws and parking.

“STAY PUT, MISS FRENCH!” the furious pawnbroker barked.

Belle blushed.  She hadn’t quite articulated the thought, but her feet had moved toward the door of their own accord, leaving little doubt that she’d been about to slip out.

Gold executed what Belle wanted to call a shove, but he did so without ever actually touching Graham’s person.  In a few quick blurs of motion, the Sheriff was ejected to the curb, the door was slammed shut, and the Open sign flipped to Closed.  Belle gave a little start when she heard the dead bolt lock. 

“Clean that up,” he snarled, wrenching a mop from some half-hidden cupboard in the corner. 

“Sorry,” Belle whispered, and she lifted the spill without complaint. 

A few moments later, Gold returned with a rag and a bottle of cleaning spray. She stepped forward to take them, and the sole of her pump made a telltale rip like painter’s tape peeling off the wall.

“Er, it’s sticky,” she admitted, feeling the heat of shame crawl up her neck and into her ears.

Gold said nothing.

Belle felt herself begin to panic, and had to force herself not to tremble. When she bent low, to her horror, she came eye to eye with a tea-brown splotch soaking into the beaded, hem of a second-hand wedding gown.

“There, ah, seems to be a stain on this dress, Mr. Gold.  You can barely see it…”

The sudden sound of rubber on hardwood alerted her to his presence, and Belle nearly jumped when she realized he was standing a few inches away from her.  Gold was not a tall man, but nor was she a tall woman, and from her perch on the floor he positively towered over her. Between two of the sewn-on seed pearls, three tiny specks of brown had stained the ivory silk to a slightly darker shade of darjeeling.

“It’s no matter,” he said hollowly.  “It’s just a dress.”

Belle’s brows furrowed.  She had fully expected him to demand that she pay for it, and had no reason to believe that the pearls and silk were anything other than genuine.  It must have cost a fortune when it was made – Belle knew more than enough about fashion to recognize that something like this did not come off the rack at a bridal store franchise.  And added to that, it was clearly an antique. She stood back up and was surprised to see a look of sad bewilderment on his face, when so recently there had been nothing but contempt and enmity.

“I’ll pay for the cleaning,” she offered.  

Gold just shook his head, dismissing her with a flutter of his hand. Belle knew a good deal when she saw one, and let herself out without bringing up the subject of late fees again.  Perhaps old dresses weren’t worth very much money...

**9.**

Rudolph wasn’t sure what to do about the situation, but he didn’t think he could keep ignoring it.  The Librarian was a problem. Ever since her awkward departure from his shop, she’d adopted the strange habit of waving at him.  Sometimes she smiled. It started tentatively, and in the following weeks her audacity blossomed into a practiced wave-and-smile whenever their paths crossed.  No words, mind you; just the waving. And despite a few, furtive glances behind his shoulder to see if someone was standing behind him, it seemed that he was the intended target of these assignations.

Gold refused to be made a fool of in public – so each time it happened he stifled the urge to look behind him, gave her a single nod in acknowledgement, and shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets.  In fact, he behaved precisely the same as he would for anyone who had not bent down and flashed an accidental glimpse of scalloped suspender lace from under the hem of a scandalously short skirt.

The woman was a menace.

To make matters worse, there was the dress.  It lay draped in the arms of a bare-faced sewing dummy, precisely where its last owner left it, and where - after a few years of bitter heartache - Rudolph Gold had learned to ignore it. Hurts, like annoyances, smoothed over and eventually turned to pearls if left to rattle around on their own for long enough.  Lessons like that were valuable; painful ones, doubly so. 

Only there it was -- still on display, and impossible to ignore.  Once you got a good look at an old scar, you realized that it didn’t really have much in common with a pearl at all.  All it did was make your vulnerable parts inflexible and hard. And once something like that erupted from obscurity, it was amazing what other contemptible relics of a bygone era surfaced alongside it.  Pieces he’d deemed beneath notice and exiled from his own thoughts stood out like flashing, red lights among the shelves. It was worse in his home, where the array of antiquities that Mrs. Potts dutifully dusted became like an old and faded wallpaper and lost all of their individual charm.  That is, until the day he came home and started to notice them.

He didn’t care for his old, wooden carousel horse - could not even recall why he’d brought it home in the first place.  The unhung paintings and empty frames propped against the dark wood molding perplexed him even more. Surely he had once meant them for something more than aesthetic clutter? And then, of course, there were the books.  The moment Miss French mentioned them, he knew exactly where they were: on the little book shelf by the door, just inside his billiards room. And there was another anomaly: he didn’t even play billiards. Nor snooker. Never had, and yet - the old Queen Anne included a billiards room, so he had arranged to install an ornate Brunswick with a set-and-spare of ivory balls.  Mrs. Potts cleaned all of that, too.

He went as far as bringing the books back to his shop, pondering the benefits of returning them after all.  But no. Miss French was doing her square best to embarrass him after just a brief flash of weakness over sticky floorboards and spilled tea.  He could not predict how she might escalate if the objects of her desire fell within reach, and anything unpredictable was to be kept firmly at bay.

He’d just have to avoid the woman.   
  
**8.**

“Is that a new tie? It looks nice.”

The poor man, he nearly lept out of his skin.  Belle almost felt sorry for pointing it out, but it was a pretty, red paisley, and the color stood out against his standard black-on-black profile.

“Miss French,” Gold said, not deigning to engage on the subject of his clothing.  “I hope all is well this morning.”

“Oh,” she paused, slightly taken aback.  “Yes, very well thanks. Just on my way in to Granny’s.”

“It’s a bit early for you, isn’t it?” he queried. 

Belle didn’t know how to respond to that.  She had a routine, and Mr. Gold had observed it. Somehow, an acknowledgement would break the spell of politeness holding them both together.

Instead, she said: “I thought I’d get an early breakfast before the children swarm me.  Little Henry Mills threatened to sleep out on the pavement before his mother came and collected him.”

Gold quirked an eyebrow, then took her entirely by surprise when he offered her his arm to cross Main Street.  Belle took it, and fell easily into pace. Even with her practiced gait that made wearing high heels bearable all day and Gold’s occasional sway of his cane, they didn’t jostle each other too badly.  It was almost nice.

Of course, the moment they reached the curb on the other side, he stiffened and nearly stumbled as he attempted to disengage.  If he weren’t so surly most of the time, it might almost have been charming. 

Belle was keenly aware of the eyes following them as they both tried to get the door for the other, undertaking three false starts before Gold physically barred her with his cane, got into position, and opened the way to Granny’s for her.

“Thank you,” she said, because what else was there to say?

“No matter,” said Gold. 

Granny stalked out of the kitchen, slapping down a wad of cash on the counter.  

“You’re early,” she spat at Gold.   And just like that, the spell was broken.

“As I recall, Mrs. Lucas, the rent is due on the first of the month.  No particular time was mentioned in your lease.” His voice had such an unexpected edge of animosity that Belle felt herself involuntarily step away.

Granny gave him a look that said quite plainly he could take his money and leave.  For his part, Gold looked fit to do just that - but that was before the Mayor walked in with Henry. 

Belle was immediately wrapped up in a hundred rapid-fire questions about the newest Heroes and Villains book that was scheduled to release today.  Had she read it all yet? (She had stayed up to finish it before the children of Storybrooke cleared out all three of the library’s copies, but would never admit as much). Did she think the Light One would finally defeat the Blue Fairy? (Prior to reading it, she had hoped he would - but like all of Isaac Heller’s books, it carried on and on without much continuity or any real resolution to the story; that’s part of what made it a compelling serial, despite the lackluster writing).  Could she open the library a few minutes early, pretty, pretty please? (She wanted to - Henry was her best customer - but it wasn’t wise to flaunt your rule breaking right under the Mayor’s nose; not even for the benefit of her only family. Regina was not a great fan of her son’s fanciful reading. Instead, Belle fed Henry the usual lines about fairness and patience, which proved briefly satisfying.)

“Here’s your tea, Belle,” said Ruby, interrupting Henry’s latest theory on the real identity of the Light One’s mysterious bride.  “I made it just how you like it.”

“Thanks, Rubes,” Belle grinned, and tried a tentative sip.  It wasn’t right, but blessedly they’d left all the sugar out of it today.  And black tea was always agreeable; certainly more so than saccharine. 

“And then, when he was fighting the Pirates, the Captain said he knew him from the old days of the Ogre War.  But Everyone always says Sixth Ogre Wars or Fifth Ogre Wars. The only time anybody just says Ogre War, singular, they mean the first one all the way back in the Frontlands. And actually, if you read the description of Blackbeard's clothing, it sounds really old fashioned.  And, and! If you translate the old troll runes that the Bandit Princess sees with the Arendelle dictionary in the collector’s edition--”

“Are you trying to poison me, dearie?”  The words are so deadly serious and preternaturally calm that they cut through the Diner chatter and stop Henry mid-stride.

“It’d serve you right,” Granny mutters.  

But Ruby is already profusely apologizing, taking a big sip of Gold’s drink to make her point.

“It was just an accident,” says Ruby. “I gave you Belle’s by mistake.  Belle, why didn’t you tell me your tea wasn’t right?”

Well. That was a loaded question, wasn’t it. 

“You drink that vile slime?” Gold snarled, as though a sweet cup was a cardinal sin.

“Um, well…”  All eyes were on Belle, and she’d never been so uncomfortable in her entire life. 

“It, ah, just wasn’t that important,” she said lamely.  “I quite like black tea.”

Belle walked to Gold in a few short strides and handed his cup back to him.  Stupid. Stupid! Her lipstick had left a mark on the lid, and now the Mayor, the Lucases, and Mr. Gold were all staring at her like she was crazy.

“Sorr--”

He took the cup, fitted his mouth over her own mark, and took a swig.

“No harm,” said Gold.  “It’s just tea.”

**7.**

Storybrooke in spring was his own, personal purgatory.  The winter coats hadn’t quite vanished from the streets, but slowly and surely the profiles were shifting their bulk away from felted wool to trench coats and sporty nylon.

Admittedly, this fact of life had never bothered him before.  But that was then, and this was now. And now, Miss French was in his shop, dripping coat hung on the peg, with a rain-sheer blouse doing absolutely nothing to conceal what the late spring chill had done to her… to her…. to the bits of her below the collar bones and above the waist.

“To, ah… To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“All business today, I’m afraid.”

Well, that certainly quashed the awkwardness.  He knew in his head that the pretty librarian was probably angling after something -- it was very nearly the end of tax season, and the town’s budget would be revised soon for the start of the new fiscal year in July. Either would make sense, though he hoped it might be the former.  Navigating the backwaters of the IRS was at least a personal favor, and one unlikely to ruin whatever this tenuous truce was between them.

She was smiling, at least.  Rudolph wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she continued, touring around the display cases and snatching back her hand against the instinctive urge to touch a large, decorative egg.

“Yes, well… It was time for a change.”

“Was the dress okay?”

“Pardon me?”

Belle turned around from her position by the window, and the angle of the light did absolutely nothing to diminish the way her damp blouse clung to her shape. Outside, the rain had worked itself up to a respectable storm.

“The wedding dress?” she repeated.  “The one I, um… stained. I’m still willing to make up the cost of the cleaning to you, if you forward the bill to me.”

With a rueful gulp, Gold realized that the sewing dummy and the gown had both hung precisely where she was standing now. But that was before he instructed Dove to swap out the inventory.

“I donated it,” he said, for lack of a more interesting lie.  

The Met was thrilled to have it, and they were certainly better qualified to do the restorations. But Belle didn’t need to know all of that; it could only lead to more questions, and Gold lacked the courage to spin her the story of Cora Mills and how she’d arrived one night with an original Chanel ransomed for a small fortune at Christie's.  Worse, he might let slip what he thought she’d meant, showing up with a dress like that. He’d never be able to keep the disappointment off his face, and that would be as good as rolling over and baring his neck to the knife.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she cooed. “I’m sure the lucky bride must have looked beautiful in it!”

She’d totally misunderstood.  Because of course she had. Rudolph didn’t dare correct her; to do so would have removed another layer of insulation from between him and the live-wire fire hazard that was his almost-fiance.

“So, business?” he said, attempting to steer the conversation back into safe waters.  If Belle French was going to disappoint him, it would be best if she just got it over with.

“Right, yes.  Well, it’s a little awkward, but--”

Here it comes…

“--Henry Mills insists that you have a sword in a guitar case along the back wall, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to put it on temporary display in the children’s reading room.”

Well, that was unexpected.

“You want me to give you a sword… for the children?”

“Not to play with!” she blurted out all in a rush.  “I thought we could perhaps lock it into a display case, along with some of the children’s drawings of the Heroes and Villains characters.  As sort of a focal piece for the month of May.”

“Heroes and Villains…” There was a question in there somewhere, but frankly his brain seemed to be short-circuiting.

Miss French spent at least twenty minutes describing the spaghetti-style plot of a high fantasy pastiche that felt less and less coherent as she carried on.  Apparently it was popular, and since the library could only afford a few copies, Belle had taken it upon herself to do after-school readings of 3 chapters per week.  Well, it started with reading. Soon, the children were making art and engaging in wooden sword fights, all of which went some distance to explain just why Regina’s son had kept coming into his shop and staring at the displays in wide-eyed wonder.

“I could loan it to you,” he decided.

Apparently that caught Miss French off guard, because her breath hitched mid-sentence and she stopped explaining the myriad theories behind the secret identity of the Light One and his as yet unseen wife.

“That would be--”

“I could loan it to you, if you reinstated my library card,”said Gold.

“Under the circumstances, I think I can manage that,” Belle decided.  

And then, to his absolute horror, she hugged him.  Just a quick, half-hug in the growing patter of a heavy rain, but it was enough to bring the thunder crashing down around them.

“I’d better go…”

“Nonsense, I’ll drive you.”

“Oh, but the library is just around the corner…”

Gold gave her a severe look. Then, he turned around and pulled a full-sized umbrella out of a copper bin in the corner.  The silk was adequately waterproofed, and the mechanisms all worked correctly. Unlike those telescoping monstrosities that bent out of shape and only kept off a third of the rain in any case, a real gentleman’s umbrella could last for decades.

“Take this, at least,” he instructed.  “And let me know when you intend to build the display.  I’ll have to confirm that the case is secure, and there will be a perfunctory contract, of course--”

“Of course,” she agreed, a hint more humor in her tone than he was comfortable with.

“But a short-term loan to display a rather interesting piece should not be a problem.”

**6.**

“Miss French, I am shocked and frankly appalled that you don’t see the problem with this sort of violent, irresponsible display,” said the Mayor, her son’s arm grasped firmly in her perfectly manicured fist.  “Weapons -- in a public building, no less! And many of the images the children drew are disturbing. Just what, exactly, have you been reading them? And what in the world gave you the impression that you could do as you pleased here without consulting Town Hall?”

“You mean without consulting you?” Belle replied so sweetly that it took a moment for Regina’s vaguely superior and patronizing stare to turn truly nasty.

“I would certainly have been an acceptable point of contact,” she hissed.

“Mom, it’s cool! It’s just like the sword that the Savior uses in the story--”

“That is enough! Henry, I want you to go wait for me at the diner.”  The poor boy looked on the verge of tears, but he listened to his mother.  Well, one of them. And wasn’t that just a festering can of worms that Belle didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole?

His mother wasted no time in ripping back into Belle.  “Miss French, your flagrant disregard for--”

“It’s educational, Regina. And fun.” And her own son’s excellent idea, which Belle wasn’t about to point out. As if Regina simply wasn’t aware.  She knew, and somehow Belle suspected that made her hate the Heroes and Villains display case more.

Of course, that also made it much more stressful for Henry...

“I ought to have the sheriff come down here and arrest you!”

Ah. There it was.  Somehow, this was about Graham. And that was worst of all, because Belle missed him too.

Just as Belle was measuring her words and Regina was rearing back for her next tirade, the familiar sound of creaking shoe leather and the rubber-blunted tip of a cane echoed across the library tiles.  

“Miss French?” called the unmistakably accented voice of one Rudolph Gold.

Regina looked like she’d just swallowed a frog.

“This is not over,” she hissed.

“Oh, I think it is, dearie,” said Gold, and Regina paled so severely that her lipstick looked like a clown’s makeup for half a second.  “I could hear you shouting all the way at the front desk. But alas, Madame Mayor, I think you’ll find that the requisite permits are all in order.”

“Why you conniving, interfering--”

“Regina, please,” Belle all but begged. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks.  And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I miss him too. Let’s just table the shouting.  I’ll change the display if it bothers you so much, I--”

“This is not about my personal feelings!” she shrieked.  “It’s a matter of public safety!”

“Well on behalf of the public, please piss off,” snarled Gold.

If Regina looked like she’d swallowed a frog before, this time it looked like she drank the whole pond.  And then, to Belle’s absolute horror, the Mayor turned around and walked out without another word said.

“You don’t have to--”

“I can deal with Regina.”

Belle must have been staring, because he nudged forward a small paper bag and Belle rushed forward to accept it.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Gold cautioned. 

Belle caught the bottom with her free hand, and realized that he had two of Granny’s cardboard to-go cups in there.  She lifted them out and passed one back to his hand. At the bottom of the bag, she found a handful of sugar packets, and quickly mixed one into the second cup.

Gold raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Belle asked after they’d both taken a cursory sip of tea that was still hot enough to boil the roof of your mouth.

Gold smiled, and reached for his wallet.  In place of prominence, above his license and opposite a pair of credit cards, was a library card.  

“This came in the mail today, so I thought I’d come and ingratiate myself with the merciful librarian.”

Well, that made sense.  Sort of. In an absolutely alien and unexpected way.  She’d gone to some trouble and no small expense to square away Mr. Gold’s new library card without voiding out the records or defrauding the tax payers.  When he requested this as his payment, she thought it was some kind of power play -- meant to somehow remind her that there was nothing she needed from him that he had to give.  He did what he wanted, and he wanted people to know it: even though he wasn’t as terrible as everyone said, that fit with the man she’d come to know over the past few months.

Nothing could have prepared her for a goodwill gesture from a man who seemed genuinely pleased to be welcome back to the lending desk.

“Well, thank you,” she said.  Belle’s sincerity was even a surprise to herself.  

**5.**

It was almost time for the annual budgetary committee, and Regina’s ledgers painted a dour picture of the library’s finances.  Institutionally, Gold could not fault the Mayor’s Office alone. The Storybrooke Library was an absolute money pit -- and it had been in dire need of repairs since well before the start of Belle’s tenure.  The elevator needed a new engine, the collection hadn’t seen any serious acquisitions in a decade, and the roofing-plumbing-wiring situation was overdue for renovations that should have started in the early 1990s. 

Miss French’s fundraising efforts covered a pitifully small percentage of the estimated operating cost for next year, and she was closing down this year at a substantial loss.  Then again, it was a library; not a bookstore. Towns invested in their public service resources because they cared about the citizenry (actually, it was because it gave Regina a feather in her cap when she applied for grant funding).  But this was not what had captured his attention at 3AM as he pored through the numbers. 

Three items, in particular, stood out: first, the fact that Miss French had apparently paid his late fees in the sum of $180 last May; second, that she had re-ordered two costly, out-of-print volumes on the proper restoration of Tiffany lamps, marking down the difference in price as a personal donation; and third, that she had re-ordered frankly inferior paperback reprints of both Chippendale and Tolkowsky.  In all, the deficit totaled $324.82, a sum further exacerbated by the late fees she’d entered under his name.

$502.82 came to less than a single rent payment on all but his most economical properties, but it was nearly half of Isabelle French’s bi-weekly paycheck.  That was appalling. He had no idea they paid her so little – even with the inclusion of the upstairs apartment and its utilities, her hourly rate was almost criminal.  And though it had almost certainly been his own influence on Regina that led to her slashing the Library’s funding in the first place, Rudolph did not want to reconcile his own actions with the measurable difficulty it had caused for the pretty librarian to drank tea with him every few days.

It had never mattered before, and Gold was insistent that it would not matter to him now.  That insistence lasted through lunch, when he went into the back office, extracted four volumes from his shelf, and tucked a personal check into each of the yellowing card pockets.

He should have done this months ago. Now, it would be too little too late.  She’d mention it - expect some sort of discourse - and he’d have to fumble his way through an apology in words instead of dollars and cents.  Hands down, Rudolph knew which one he’d prefer.

Without ever really meaning to, he wrote a personal check to Miss French for the full amount.  Then he drafted another check with double that amount, made out as a donation to the Storybrooke Public Library.  To be doubly sure that she got his point, he added an extra zero before signing.

It wasn’t charity. If anything, it was a fresh beginning.  All he had to do was ask Dove to leave the books in the night returns box and everything would carry on.  Everything would be fine.

**4.**

Belle took a deep breath and started counting down from ten.

10: Of course he’d known where the books were all this time.  9: Of course he’d intentionally kept them from her, for no discernable reason.  8: Of course he’d persuaded her to forgive him anyway. 7: Of course that had been just another move in some sort of strange power game.  6: Of course she fell for it. Of course she did! Of course there was no sensible reason why Mr. Gold, of all people, would have struck up something like a friendship with a person who was just trying to do her best…

Okay, she needed to start again.

10: Of course he was going to learn the particular details of the library’s finances.  9: Of course it was better to mend the problem late than never. 8: Of course she wasn’t going to accept money from him. 7: … of course she couldn’t turn down a $10,000 donation when the library was in such dire straits.  6: And of course he could afford that much and more, because he bloody owned everything and wanted everyone to know it--

Yeah, this was going to take some time.  Belle sighed. She never made it all the way to 1.

**3.**

“Are we… are you…”

“I’m fine,” said Belle, sipping the wine Ruby poured for them.  “This is fine. I was angry, but… thank you. For everything. I--”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted all at once.  He hadn’t said it. In all these months, with all the subtle gestures and attempts to build bridges, the cause of which he could scarcely understand, he’d never actually apologized.  Sadly, it took Emma holding him in the drunk tank and lecturing him on basic human decency for him to really get the point.

“I’m sorry for being an arse, mostly,” he continued.  “And for being less than forthright. And… for that incident at the Town Hall.  I shouldn’t have said… most of what I said to Regina that night. But I’m - I’m more sorry than you will ever know that I made you feel like anything less than you are.  Because I think you’re--”

“Two cheese burgers, extra pickles.”

Granny could not have picked a worse moment to interrupt them, and Gold knew without a doubt that she’d planned it that way.  The way she threw his plate down like she wanted to break it over his head was a rather un-subtle clue as well. And now she was lingering.

“Thank you, Granny,” Belle said after a beat.  It was a dismissal, and the older woman took it grudgingly. 

“So,” Belle started in that delicately sweet voice that belied her strength.  “Is this a date?”

“Do you want it to be?” he choked.

When she didn’t say anything for several torturous seconds, Rudolph realized that it was his turn to be brave.

“I would very much like it if this was a date,” he whispered, hoping against the odds that none of the diner staff had a front row seat to his humiliation. 

Belle reached a delicate hand across the table and grasped his fingers in hers. “I’d like that too.”

It felt as though all his hopes had welled up in a beautiful, golden light, washing through his black and withered heart. Everything was going to be alright.

**2.**

They never made it all the way to 1.


End file.
